


Everything Is Sparks

by loveanddeathandartandtaxes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Catlock, Declarations Of Love, Dolllock, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, LopJohn, M/M, Post-Case Patch-up, Rimming, Tails
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-17 07:08:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2300852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveanddeathandartandtaxes/pseuds/loveanddeathandartandtaxes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m not even a real Mender! I can’t Make you a new ear.”<br/>“You could try,” he purred.<br/>John groaned. They both knew Sherlock would win this argument.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tallenough](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tallenough).



It seemed inevitable, in hindsight, that Sherlock would tear an ear sooner or later. John had already had to do numerous repairs on the seams in his arms and legs where he overstressed them, as well as a few patches on injuries sustained on cases. Three nights ago, Sherlock caught the pointed cloth on a sheet of metal as they snuck through an abandoned factory. Since then, he’d been distracted and irritable.

“ _John_!”

He set the newspaper and his cup of tea down and suppressed a smile as Sherlock stormed out of his bedroom, his whole ear flattened back in irritation, his damaged one sitting limply. The damage meant the triangles of cloth were nearly torn in two. It really wasn’t decent to be so satisfied at his flatmate’s temper, he thought, but at least he was not wallowing.

“John, you need to fix my ear.”

“I’ve never done cosmetic surgery, Sherlock,” he said mildly, as Sherlock was speaking a little too loudly, “and I don’t really plan on starting now.”

Sherlock scowled as he sat opposite him.

“You think it’s merely a _cosmetic_ issue?”

“Christ, I don’t even know with you. You’re the vainest person I’ve ever met, Cat or Doll, with your cheekbones and turning your collar up so you look cool-”

“I don’t-”

“-but you simultaneously seem entirely unconcerned with not having a tail. It’s not even some kind of personal statement; you just got too impatient to sit on your Maker’s bench any more to have one Made and attached. I don’t doubt she was sick of your mouthing off the whole time, too.”

“Mycroft should never have told you that. Anyway, it’s irrelevant. Clearly you are unaware that the stitchspell for my hearing is _inside_ my ears and has been _damaged_.”

When he knew that, John thought he could pick up the inconsistencies in Sherlock’s voice that indicated he could not hear himself properly. He faced Sherlock to make sure he could read his lips clearly, pushing his own ears to hang behind his shoulders.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. You should go to your Maker to fix that, then.”

Sherlock sunk into a deeper slouch.

“No. You do it.”

“I’m not even a real Mender! I can’t Make you a new ear.”

“You could try,” he purred.

John groaned. They both knew Sherlock would win this argument.

“I will _try_ on… three conditions. We are not taking any cases until it’s fixed. If it doesn’t work we go to your mother immediately. If you damage yourself again like this you tell me _immediately_. I don’t want you endangering yourself for, what? Your pride?”

“Very well. I’ll give you the pattern for my ears, and the details of the hearing spell.”

“Your mother gave you your own patterns?” That was… rather unusual. Sherlock smirked.

“Of course not.”

_Well_. That was not unusual at all.


	2. Chapter 2

He wanted to take longer, practicing embroidering the runes for hearing, but Sherlock loitered around him as he stitched the sigils, even bending over John’s chair to literally watch over his shoulder, often resting his chin on John’s shoulder and squashing one of his ears.

“You’re doing marvellously. Make my ear now.”

John shook his head.

“John! _Please_.”

Pulling Sherlock around to face him, he tried to make his friend focus.

“You agreed. If it doesn’t work, we go to your Maker.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock drew his knees up on his own chair, with John standing over him.

“Very fine sutures, doctor.”

“Yes.”

“Regularity has a higher priority than invisibility; it aids in motility.”

“Ah. Alright.” He pushed, again, silky curls out of his way. Obviously he couldn’t shave it away from the area like he would with a patient made of flesh, and the strands coiled around his fingers as he set tiny neat stitches binding ear to scalp. When finished, he knotted the thread off and hid the end inside the seam. Leaning in closer, John could feel the tickle of hair against his jaw.

“Alright, I think I’m done,” he said lowly.

“Mm.”

“You can hear me?”

“I think so. I can still hear you in my other ear, though.”

John followed the unspoken order and leaned in closer, spoke softer.

“Your hair is so soft.”

“Yes.”

“I like how it curls around your ears.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s beautiful,” John whispered. Sherlock’s response was a breathy noise. He shifted a fraction more towards Sherlock.

“You’re b-” his nose nudged Sherlock’s ear and it twitched, making John jump back, startled and flustered.

“I-”

“I _heard_ you,” Sherlock assured him, pushing himself up to standing. John froze and Sherlock encircled him with his arms, keeping him from backing away. He inched his own arms around Sherlock’s body and looked up at his face. Ears pricked keenly up, Sherlock leaned in slowly, touching their lips together delicately.

 [](http://practicefortheheart.tumblr.com/post/98205473214/im-not-even-a-real-mender-i-cant-make-you-a)


	3. Chapter 3

Days passed in a flurry of kisses and cases. After they staggered home sometime around 3am after chasing down a poisoner, they fumbled their way through agreeing to share Sherlock’s bed. John was hoping for some company in bed in the morning, although he wasn’t actually surprised to wake up alone.

“Morning, you,” he smiled, seeing Sherlock titrating some kind of solution when he entered the kitchen.

“Mm.” He turned his head a little to receive a kiss on the cheek, which John happily gave.

Kettle, toaster, cupboard, fridge. Kisses and tea and jammy toast to start the day. Life was good; he hummed tunelessly to himself as he pottered.

His toast was buttered and he was opening the jam jar when he felt a soft presence at his back. Sherlock nosed at his ear and purred.

“You’re _dancing_. In the kitchen.”

John smiled at Sherlock’s observation.

“I’m just happy.” He pressed back into the lithe body behind him.

“Your tail was twitching.” Sherlock paused. “It’s twitching now. That’s… I’m not hurting you, am I?” He tried to move back, but John’s hands flew to Sherlock’s hips to keep them together.

“No, it’s… fine.”

“Your tail is fascinating,” continued Sherlock. “I want to hold it.”

“Y-yeah? It’s, I mean, it’s pretty sensitive. And. Well. Provocative.” Oh God, he was blushing.

“Perfect.” Sherlock tugged at John’s pyjama pants.

 

* * *

 

 

Minutes later John hazily considered himself: bent over the bench, one of Sherlock’s hands fiddling with his tail, the other, gloved and slick, pressing fingers inside him. He was being kissed everywhere from his waist to his knees, firm presses of cloth and silk thread. He was ludicrously happy, rather close to coming, and possibly completely insane, and tried to communicate this to Sherlock.

“You’re not making sense, John. Put your hand on yourself; I haven’t one to spare.”

“Going to come,” he cautioned as he obeyed.

“Really? Good. Do it.”

This directive was accompanied by a calculated move around his prostate. John gasped, nearly hitting his head against the benchtop as he curled over further and bucked his hips, a few quick pulls all he needed to tip over into orgasm. The hand buried in his fluffy tail slid around to his stomach, holding him steady with deceptive strength, and it felt like Sherlock might be mouthing words against his skin.

Eventually, though, Sherlock eased his fingers from John and binned the glove. John took a moment to think about standing upright.

“That was-” Grabbing Sherlock at the shoulders, he kissed him soundly. “That was bloody lovely. Can I… ? ” he snuck a hand under Sherlock’s t-shirt and trailed it down to the band of his pyjama pants.

“There’s no need,” Sherlock told him. “I’m quite satisfied. Although if you still feel the need for me to have my own tail, you may Make me one.”

“Oh, _may_ I?”

“You made a very eloquent pitch for it. I particularly liked the part where you squeaked.”

“I’ll make _you_ squeak,” John growled.

“Yes, that's rather my point.”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

"Jesus _Christ_ , Sherlock," John breathed as they browsed fabrics and furs at the Doll Supplies warehouse. "Why are these so expensive?"

"The spell-receptive weaving," supplied Sherlock. "That and sheer quality.”

"Hmm."

"How much would you charge for human organs?"

"... It's illegal?"

Sherlock dismissed this with a wave of his hand.

"Thats a question of sourcing. But _these_... these can make a person."

John supposed he could see what Sherlock was saying.

"Right. So, something... sleek?" He stroked some short-hair fur in a dark chocolate. Sherlock shook his head, sinking his fingers into the longest fur stocked. He smirked and hurried to kiss the disbelief right off John's face.

 

* * *

 

"Let's get started, then."

"Nope," John ruled, setting down the newly completed tail. Sherlock pouted as prettily as he could, drooping his ears dejectedly.

" _No_ ," he repeated. "It's already half ten, Sherlock, and this isn't like patching on your ear. I need to open up a bit of your spinal seam to attach it securely, so I want to be well rested before I start."

"You'll be sleeping upstairs, then, so I don't distract you," Sherlock deduced in a flat tone.

"Wrong. I'd really rather not, if it's all the same to you."

He watched Sherlock consider for a moment, then smile coyly.

"You like rubbing your hand over my back and buttocks. You should do that tonight; you won't be able to do it in the same way after tomorrow."

They'd slept together every night since the close of the previous case, but had not had sex again after that first time in the kitchen, and John didn't expect anything more than what Sherlock suggested. He knew Dolls functioned... differently, and it wasn't as if he was starved of affection. Sherlock had taken to winding himself around John as he lay in bed or sat in his chair or stood in the kitchen, face pressed into his neck, fingers encircling his wrist to take his pulse.

 

* * *

 

Between the sheets, Sherlock took John's hands and kissed his fingers.

"Tell me what it's like."

"I dunno, Sherlock, I've always had it. It feels like asking what it's like to have a hand, or a penis."

"Try."

"Well. Mine's only this stumpy little thing; I can't do much more than twitch it. Harry got Dad's Dog traits, except she spent a summer when we were teenagers learning to suppress and fake wagging hers. I've stitched a lot more motion into yours, though. You could’ve asked Sally."

Sherlock ignored his suggestion. "What does it feel like?"

"When it's touched?"

Sherlock nodded and lipped at his fingertips.

"Well, it's very sensitive. Everything is sparks. You don't let just anyone touch it; you have to trust them."

"Can I hold yours now?"

"Of course."

They shifted closer together. One huge hand slid over his skin and cupped the quivering fur, dwarfing John's tiny tail.

"S'nice. Sends a shiver right up my spine. I guess that's why it gets so linked to sex, you know? It's _intimate_." His own cock was certainly taking an interest. Tucked up under Sherlock’s chin as he was, there was no way he hadn’t noticed.

"I don't particularly want to have sex," Sherlock admitted.

"I know. It's fine, ignore that."

He heard a small noise of assent from Sherlock, who then rolled over to allow John to stroke his lower back and arse, just like he promised, just the way John liked.

 


	5. Chapter 5

"No, stay in bed," John murmured when he felt Sherlock move to sit up in the morning. "I'll grab some breakfast and then we can sew."

He brought in the tail, his Mending kit, and a laptop - there was no denoting 'John's' or 'Sherlock's' any more for any of their possessions, be it clean socks or laptops or bank cards. He thought for a moment and dragged over a chair.

"Alright, on your belly over here, love. Laptop to keep you occupied, so _do not move_ until i'm done."

"You're anxious because you are comparing my spinal seam to a fleshy spinal cord, when in reality it is no more or less important to my well-being than every other seam on my body." Turning on the laptop, he began to check for cases.

With that as a constant mantra in his head, John sat and rested his hand where the tail would go. Pursing his lips, he snuck his finest thread-cutting scissors into the gap between fabric pieces, snagged and cut a stitch. He could then begin the process of opening a sufficient gap to secure the decadent tail.

 

* * *

 

About an inch into the sewing, Sherlock began to squirm.

"Stop that," cautioned John, a firm hand in the small of his back.

"It _tingles_ , John!"

"Ah. Well, I've still got a ways to go, and then I want to make sure your spinal seam is secure. So."

Soon after, the stitchspell began to take, the tail warming to the touch as it twitched or ruffled the fur occasionally. It made John a little uneasy, but he held his ground, doggedly working around the circumference.

“Alright,” he declared eventually. “That’s on. Don’t get up yet, I haven’t closed the gap in your spine. Can you - can you feel it?” Holding the tail near the end, he tickled the fur at the very tip. Sherlock jolted.

“Oh! J- Be careful!”

Chuckling quietly, John gently lay Sherlock's new tail running up his back, and hunkered down to the business of closing up the small hole remaining below the base of it. He couldn't help but rest his fingers, wrist, or forearm on a plush arsecheek, and to be honest he didn't really try. Sherlock shifted a little.

"You alright?"

"Mm. Done?"

"Just a - let me - mm. Okay," he said, running fingertips from cloth up into fur, and back down. Sherlock made a strangled noise and shifted again.

"Good?"

" _John_. Again."

"I'm going to hold your tail up, alright?" It was a luxurious slide across his palms as he stood, drawing the fur up with him. "You need to make sure you can move your tail. Twitch it; I'll let it fall when you manage it."

Sherlock grumbled, then lapsed into concentrated silence. His tail twitched out of John's loose hold, and he picked it up again.

"Very good. This time make it go left." He patted Sherlock's hip for clarification.

"No."

"B-"

"I can move my tail. We can work on dexterity later. That's not the important thing."

John blustered.

"Yes it is!"

"No, John. I can _feel_ my tail. That is the important thing. If you could please stop _doctoring_ it and start _touching_ it?" His arse pressed back into the air, in case John didn't understand.

"Oh." His hands were a little dry, catching on cloth when he dropped one to caress him. The fingers on his other hand danced and slid through fur, hopefully creating pleasurable sensations. "Can - May I - Are you - ?"

Sherlock grabbed his wrist, jamming John’s hand under his hips so he could feel his satin cock, stiffer than he expected. “I am, and you may.”

“Gnfh.” He squeezed lightly and gloried in Sherlock grinding down against him.

John clambered onto the bed, wedging a knee between Sherlock’s thighs. Gingerly he pulled his hand from underneath him and took two handfuls of plump arse, easing them apart to get a glimpse of his tightly gathered hole.

“Yes, John.”

Dragging his thumb down over it drew a full-body shudder from Sherlock, so John reversed direction and traced the centre seam back up from right behind his balls to the base of his tail, then tickling around the seam of the new appendage. Sherlock keened.

“Alright,” John said. “Alright.”

With a few nudges, he got Sherlock to spread his legs a little further, allowing John to position himself between them. He knew what he wanted to do. Folding himself over, his ears tickled Sherlock’s cloth before he pushed his face into that cleft, licking around and into Sherlock’s arse. Thankfully it seemed as sensitive to Sherlock as John hoped, given his reactions. He scrabbled at the sheets to find something to grip, before clutching his pillow with one hand and hooking a couple fingers of his other around John’s fingers as they held him tight. It seemed like he was speaking, except he only managed half the phonemes. There was a few words he managed, though, and he repeated them over and over.

“John! John, yes, please. Yes! Please, John!”

With a smile, a nip, and a kiss, John moved back enough to speak without muffling his voice into arsecheek.

“Do you think you can come, like this? Can you - _can_ you come, like how I know it?”

“I - I think - I’m about to unravel. Oh God. If you do… that, and touch my tail. I.”

“ _Fuck_.” John could imagine. “Right.”

When it happened, then, he could _feel_ Sherlock’s seams rippling and contracting as he bucked his hips, tail bristling and stiff. If he’d been flesh and bone rather than cloth and stuffing, he might have bruised John rather spectacularly. Once Sherlock, sated, sagged into the mattress, John checked briefly that he hadn't _actually_ unravelled then rolled to lay on his back beside him, shoving his pyjamas down to fist his cock desperately. This wouldn't take long.

Light fingers stroked his ear, then skimmed his body to cup his balls loosely, and he was coming.

“Jnngffsh!”

Sherlock chuckled quietly. “I beg your pardon?”

John cracked an eye open with some effort - when had he closed them? - to glare half-heartedly.

“Shut up, beautiful.”

They entwined fingers, and Sherlock inspected John’s nailbeds.

“That was satisfying, wasn't it.” His eyes sharpened. “Wasn't it? Of course it was, you’d say something if - but I need to be sure.”

“You’re - I never knew how much I could want you. How much I could - Christ, Sherlock, I love you.”

“I know,” Sherlock mumbled, turning his face away to bury it in the pillow. “I love you too, of course.  _You've_  loved _me_ for months, at least.”

A startled laugh burst from John’s throat.

“At least. I couldn't help it.”


End file.
